


Midwinter

by wyntera



Series: Dungeons And Noodle Dragons AU [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dungeons & Dragons 3.5 Edition, Forgotten Realms - Freeform, M/M, Pathfinder AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:38:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8918011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: McHanzo Week Day 3 Prompt: Alternate Universe - Tabletop RPG Universe AUThe world is big and dangerous for someone like Hanzo. It helps to have someone to walk the path by your side.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Hubris_and_Crafts for inspiration on this, we have an AU idea for this little universe that we keep playing with. I take elements from D&D, Forgotten Realms, Eberron, and Pathfinder, cause I love me some TTRPGs!

The dagger is drawn before Hanzo truly wakes, clenched in his fist and ready to strike. Heart thudding hard in his chest, it takes him a long moment to realize where he is--north of the Dale, along the Spine of the World, among friends--and that he is safe. The cave they are in is not connected to the Underdark, nor is it the home of any beast out for their blood. It is just a cave, barely big enough for their small party and the burning fire between them, and he is  _ safe. _

 

The dream fades quick enough and he lets out a long breath, sheathing the dagger and pushing up onto one elbow. Across from him, Genji lays with his enormous body wrapped in furs and spare blankets. After their run-in earlier that day with ice trolls and the frost drake guarding its roost, getting Genji warm became a top priority. Since his transformation into a drider by the Goddess Lolth and their escape from the House of Shimada to the world above, things have been exponentially harder on the drow brothers. They have faced a lot of obstacles and enemies, and frostbite is not going to be the foe that takes Genji from his side.

 

With the abundance of fur coverings, Hanzo cannot see Genji’s eight legs or his giant spider body, just the top of his shoulders and his arms folded beneath his head. He is cradled in the lap of Zenyatta, one metal hand resting in the curve at the base of Genji’s skull. The warforged monk requires no rest but frequently enters a meditative state, something he does in lieu of sleep.

 

An unexpected boon to their little party, Zenyatta has taken it upon himself to keep a watchful eye out for the drider. Genji has taken to the warforged just as readily, and while their friendship and obvious affection toward one another was met with distrust at first, Hanzo has quickly learned to value the monk. There have certainly been too few beings in this world that have had his brother’s best interests at heart. Having one more certainly does not hurt.

 

The other bedroll around the fire is empty. Hanzo has a flash of worry before remembering that McCree is on watch outside the cave entrance.

 

Sitting up fully, Hanzo stretches his arms over his head to work the kinks out. Comfortable is not what he would call this cave floor by any means. He puts a few more logs on the fire and stokes the flames, checking the can he left close to the embers. The coffee may be days old but hot coffee is hot coffee, and he will take what he can get. Carefully pouring some into his spare flask to mix with his mead, Hanzo gets to his feet and pulls his cloak tight around his shoulders. Grabbing Storm Bow, he ventures to the mouth of the cave.

 

It takes him a few moments to spot McCree. High in one of the trees, his winter clothes make him nearly invisible in the darkness. The red cloak he typically wears is missing, probably folded carefully in his backpack; McCree never wears it when he is on watch, even on nights as cold as this. Too visible, too dangerous. He looks wrong without it.

 

Hanzo allows himself the chance to study McCree from a distance. The gunslinger is so much different when he is unaware he is being watched. The normally easy-going smile and careless attitude are replaced with a seriousness that they rarely see. But that is not the only thing that they rarely see--the fangs and red eyes are new, too.

 

It has only been a few weeks since they discovered McCree was not the human they all thought they had been traveling with for the past year. He had always seemed too good to be true to Hanzo. A human with a soft spot for the misunderstood and the persecuted, Jesse McCree (or one of his many aliases, they were always changing) made his living getting things for people like Hanzo and Genji. Not just drow, but orcs, fetchlings, duergar, nagaji, vishkanya, and anything inbetween. Where they could not venture, McCree would go and acquire supplies, trade, secure passage on ships, and sometimes just get information on a job. Bounty hunting and dungeon delving became quite lucrative, but having McCree around to secure the reward was a necessity.

 

Somehow a single job turned into two, then three, then ten, and even though McCree talked often about the many people he has been adventuring with in his life, they never find the gunslinger moving on from the drow brothers. It was a good fit, the three of them much better off together than separate. Then Zenyatta joined their party, more time passed, and they stopped questioning it after a while.

 

Then the paladin happened.

 

They were closing in on the undead wraith only known as the Reaper and preparing to capture him and the substantial bounty on his head. Just as Hanzo was drawing his bow and notching the specialty ghost-touch arrows they crafted just for this mission, things went to hell. Morrison, holy soldier and supreme ass, came charging in with a blaze of light with his merry band of righteous followers in tow. Their sudden presence--loud and extravagant, with that Reinhardt at his side--had the Reaper disappearing into the shadows and out of their grasp. For that inconvenience Hanzo was more than happy to turn his bow on these new targets.

 

The close quarters made keeping distance difficult, and Hanzo ended up slashing with his rapier just as much as he fired with his bow, trying to keep track of his target that kept teleporting around the room. Damn wizards and their manipulation of time. Genji was leaping through the shadows throwing shuriken with abandon and Zenyatta was keeping Reinhardt distracted with a flurry of blows, the sound of gunshots deafening in the small space. Neither side was making progress, evenly matched as they were. They needed to fall back and regroup, try to lose them.

 

That is when Hanzo heard a pained cry at his back.

 

Whirling, he saw McCree clutching at his arm, wounded by a strike from Morrison’s longsword, Peacekeeper dropped to the ground. There was a shocked look on both their faces as Morrison held his shield aloft, the gold glow from the metal crest shining on McCree’s face with an eerie light that made his eyes turn red. Morrison had shouted then, gravelly voice screaming ‘Outsider! Demon!’ The cleric at the back of their party had turned then and swirled her hands in a complicated motion at McCree, and in seconds the ground beneath the gunslinger’s feet shone bright with a forming ward. A containment spell.

 

All this passed through Hanzo’s mind in a matter of seconds, but he did not take the time to contemplate what it meant. He just bodily threw himself at the priest to stop the incantation.

 

He is still not entirely sure how they managed to escape after that. No words of meaning were uttered between them until they had put a good two miles between themselves and their pursuers. They only stopped for the night once Zenyatta insisted they rest and tend to McCree’s wound.

 

Not Jesse McCree, human gunslinger. Jesse McCree tiefling gunslinger.

 

Anger warred with concern as Zenyatta carefully healed what he could and wrapped what he could not with poultice and bandage, and Hanzo had taken first, second, and third watch that night. It was not because McCree was not human; that would be ridiculous. It was that he had lied, for nearly a year. Somewhere along the line they had surpassed being merely adventuring companions. They were friends. Hanzo thought, maybe--well. It does not matter what he thought.

 

McCree had not been able to share his half-demon heritage with them, after everything they had been through. And it stung. There was no one in this world that Hanzo could trust besides his brother, the monk, and he thought McCree. Forgiveness has not been easy.

 

But the wounds McCree sustained that night have healed, and despite everyone’s assumptions he has not slunk off into the night and disappeared on them. He has weathered the biting comments, the distrusting looks, the bitter silences that sometimes lasted days at a time. And still, he is here. Watching over them as they sleep.

 

Perhaps he has suffered enough.

 

Hanzo purposefully steps with weight on the dried dead grass so McCree is aware of his presence before easily scaling the tree. He settles on the branch just next to the one McCree is on, adjusting himself and finding a place to lodge Storm Bow for easy retrieval. McCree watches all this with a bland disinterested look on his face, eyes hidden by the shadow of his hat. “You don’t have watch for another few hours,” he finally says, voice hoarse with disuse.

 

“I could not sleep,” Hanzo replies, pulling the flask from his hip and offering it to McCree. The other man hesitates for a moment before taking it. “If I was going to poison you, I would have done so already.”

 

“That’s just what someone about to poison someone would say,” McCree says, taking a small drink then another longer one, enjoying the burn.

 

They pass the flask back and forth, watching the darkness. It is unlikely raiders would be out tonight, what with the winter being as bad as it has been this year, but they have learned to never be too careful. Sometimes, when they are feeling whimsical, they talk about what it might be like to have a safe place to sleep at night, where all four of them can rest at the same time and not worry about bandits or goblins knocking at their door. Dreams of a future they are unlikely to see, given the nature of their profession. But it is nice to dream.

 

Hanzo has never been good with words, and more and more he has come to rely on McCree’s voice to fill their evenings. He wishes he knew how to begin this much-needed conversation. Luckily McCree has always been good at that.

 

“Hell of a way to spend Midwinter,” he comments, breath coming out in hot curls from his mouth.

 

Hanzo looks over. “Is it really? It hardly feels like it is already Deadwinter Day.” McCree shrugs, taking another swig from the flask. The motion makes Hanzo uneasy. “It could be worse.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yes.” He reaches over and takes the flask, downing another gulp to steel himself. “At least we have good company.”

 

He knows McCree is looking at him then, and he forces himself to look where he knows those eyes are. He still cannot see them in this light. They are not like his own light silver, glowing softly in the darkness. “That’s a change of tune,” McCree says cautiously.

 

Hanzo looks down at his hands, at the silver ring he has worn since finding out McCree was a tiefling. It is enchanted to protect the wearer from charm effects. It took him a while to realize that McCree’s charm had little to do with his innate magical abilities, and everything to do with being Jesse McCree. He slides the ring off and pockets it. “I was angry you lied. But I cannot afford to hold a grudge against my allies. Nor would I want to, against you.”

 

His companion finally tips his hat back enough for the ambient glow from the moon to light his face. The glamour that usually masks McCree’s otherworldly features is missing for the moment. Normally tan skin is much more ruddy, hair closer to black. The eyes are striking. One still brown but the other a blood red, something that only reveals itself when McCree uses his Deadeye. It is the same color as the poison Hanzo tips his arrows with. Hanzo had always thought it was a result of the magic; now he knows that in that one moment where the world goes still and quiet McCree’s true self peeks through.

 

McCree still looks nervous, prepared for a strike. “I never intended it to be like this,” he says, fingers searching for one of the smokes he keeps hidden within his leather armor. “Whole point of bein’ the man who gets things is to be human enough to do your job.”

 

“You could have told us.”

 

“Yeah, I could’a,” McCree grimaces with reluctant agreement. “I guess I just figured I’d be in the wind before you needed to know. But we just kept travelin’ together, and it never seemed like a good time, and...it got away from me.”

 

Hanzo finds his own slender pipe just as McCree locates his rolled tobacco. He starts to search for his matches but McCree stops him. “Don’t worry, I got it.” His gloved hand takes hold of Hanzo’s and the intricately carved elven pipe, raising it between them. Leaning over McCree blows a steady stream of air across the opening from his pursed lips. Hanzo watches in amazement as the tobacco catches and flares. McCree does the same with his own smoke, the tip turning to ember under the heat of his breath.

 

“Nice trick,” Hanzo says, deadpan. It has the desired effect of making McCree laugh. He was never one to show how impressed he was with the other man’s skills. Though he is very, very skilled.

 

“Handy in a pinch, that.”

 

“Your ability to light a fire so quickly suddenly makes much more sense.”

 

McCree takes a draw from his cigarillo, the orange glow making his demonic features seem even more pronounced. “I am a man of many talents, Hanzo. What can I say?”

 

They smoke together, just for a few minutes. Not the wisest thing to do while on watch, but again, Hanzo is certain it is only a formality. Not even the undead are out on a night like this, with the moon high and bright in the sky despite the thick clouds moving in, silver light filtering through the thick branches. He nearly suggests they head down to the cave and get warm, the watch be damned. But part of Hanzo wants to keep McCree to himself for a little while longer.

 

“You ever ran with a tiefling before?” McCree asks, stubbing out the flame about halfway through his smoke and tucking the rest away for later.

 

“No,” Hanzo replies. He takes one last draw from his pipe before snuffing it out. “I understand they are more common than I expected.”

 

“People dance with demons more often than they realize. Nah, just wonderin’ if you had any questions, might put you at ease about me.”

 

“Fear not; you are just as annoyingly charming as you were as a human,” Hanzo says, drawing another soft laugh from the man. “I do not need to know how other tieflings act. I know you, and that is enough.”

 

McCree looks at a loss for words at that, eyes tracing Hanzo’s features. “Funny,” he says finally. “I’ve met a hell of a lot of drow, but not a one of ‘em’s been like you.”

 

“Considering they were probably trying to stab your heart out, I will take that as a compliment.” Suddenly, he wants to make McCree feel as welcome in his skin as the gunslinger has for he and his brother ever since the pair stumbled their way up from the Underdark. And the only way to do that is to know. The request catches in his throat, but he forces himself to ask. “Can I see?”

 

“See?” McCree asks, confused for a moment but gets it quickly. His gaze goes shuttered again. “Want to look at the oddity?”

 

“You are not an oddity,” Hanzo growls. How absurd. “Not because of what you are, anyway. You were always odd.”

 

“You say the nicest things.” But despite the attitude, McCree slips the hat off his head and rests it on a short branch like he would a common hat rack. The twin horns growing from just above McCree’s hairline are short and blunt, the same dark color as his hair. His normally curved ears are pointed now. Not as pronounced as Hanzo’s and Genji’s, but enough to be noticeable without the hat.

 

Hanzo itches to touch. “Have you always had them?” he asks, twisting his dark fingers around the hem of his cloak.

 

“Yeah. They were longer, once. Harder to hide like that.”

 

Then McCree is undoing the clasp of his own cloak and the buckles of his armor. Hanzo frowns. “What are you doing?”

 

“You said you wanted to see, didn’t you?”

 

“Yes, but what--?” The words are cut off as McCree slings his cloak and chestpiece to the side. There, sprouting from McCree’s back and through handmade slits in his clothing, are wings. Small and most likely useless, they look like ragged bat wings the same color as McCree’s skin. They twitch and stretch a bit but otherwise stay tucked tight against McCree’s back, probably from the cold. “Gods,” Hanzo breathes, leaning forward. “How have you hid this?”

 

“We’ve stuck to the north for the most part, so being fully clothed was a necessity. And I used a little misdirection now and then.” He glances over his shoulder at Hanzo, worry creasing his features.

 

“May I?” Hanzo asks, raising a hand but not touching.

 

“You want to…?” He nods, and Hanzo reaches out to touch with gentle hands. The skin is soft, much softer than he expected, like warm velvet. There are holes in the edges, damage from who-knows-what. “Can you fly with these?”

 

“Nah, never could. I used to be able to glide, break my fall if I needed to. It’s been so long, I’m not sure they’re even strong enough for that anymore.” A hard shiver wracks McCree’s body, and Hanzo realizes they must be quite sensitive. “They ain’t much to look at, but--”

 

“They are beautiful,” Hanzo says.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“You are ashamed,” he clarifies. “And you have no reason to be. They are beautiful.” He bites his lip. Saying what he needs to say is easier with McCree facing the other way. “I was angry, because...because I thought we….that you and I, maybe...”

 

McCree flutters slightly in his grasp, the beat of a crow’s wings. He turns his head just enough so Hanzo can see his profile. “I know,” he murmurs. “I didn’t want to ruin this. I don’t even know what this is, or if it was just wishful thinking, but--”

 

“Jesse,” he sighs, pressing his face into his companion’s shoulder. He is barely able to pull it off, hanging halfway off his branch to do it. “The only way you could ruin this is if you leave.”

 

Strong arms grasp him then, helping lift the drow from one branch to the other to settle practically in McCree’s lap. Not a second after Hanzo is secure they are kissing, hard and needy and a year in the making. Lips, tongues, teeth and fangs, grasping hands and gripping thighs. McCree’s hands are everywhere, the flesh and the prosthetic alike, but at least McCree has the decency to keep the cold metal one above the clothes. His other slips beneath Hanzo’s cloak to grope at his normally exposed chest, tracing the white lines of the dragon he cannot see but remembers clearly. Hanzo drags sharp nails through the hair on McCree’s chest and stomach, gripping the soft curves of his sides, biting his lips until they are pouty and swollen.

 

“Darlin’...Hanzo, fuck,” McCree gasps into his mouth, barely restraining a moan.

 

“You’re so hot,” Hanzo whispers, pressing into him. It is like the tiefling has a fire inside him, so much warmer than normal. For all Hanzo knows, that may well be the case.

 

“You say the nicest things,” McCree replies, chuckling when Hanzo rolls his eyes. They fall back into another round of heated kisses, and Hanzo would be quite content to spend the rest of both his and McCree’s watch doing just that.

 

A loud snap in the quiet night around them brings it all to a startling halt. In seconds McCree has Peacemaker drawn and aimed, Hanzo grasping his dagger and poised to fight. They stare out into the dark night for a long moment before McCree sighs. “Just a tree creakin’ in the cold,” he says, returning his gun to its holster.

 

Hanzo twirls the knife before resheathing it, looking around one last time before bringing his gaze back to the man he is currently straddling. “This is neither the time or place for us to…”

 

“Indulge in our baser instincts?” McCree supplies, the cocky grin that has been missing the past few weeks finally returning.

 

“And I would like to do that in a bed, if it is all the same to you.” Hanzo is glad his skin is so dark and the light so low that blushes are not a thing he needs to worry about. “How soon until we find decent shelter? Something with more than one room, perhaps?”

 

“You better believe that will be my first priority,” he promises, grabbing his cloak and throwing it around both of them. “There is a village half a day’s ride from here. On foot we should make it by nightfall, if we start out at dawn. What we find when we get there…”

 

“I have every faith you will deal with it.” Hanzo nuzzles at the dark scruff of McCree’s beard, reveling in the feeling of being this close. “And if not, we will make do.”

 

McCree smiles, drawing the drow closer in his hold. “We always do.” Another kiss, then, “I take it back. Best Deadwinter Day of my life.”

 

Hanzo laughs, settling in. They still have a few hours until dawn. He has a feeling things are only going to get better from here. “Just wait until next year.”


End file.
